


Dead and Gone

by Tearsheet



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:51:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tearsheet/pseuds/Tearsheet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sif tries to live in a world without Loki.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead and Gone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bechedor79](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bechedor79/gifts).



> Written for bechedor79 for the Mischief and Mistletoe holiday exchange.

“If you betray him, I will kill you,” Sif says, her blade at Loki’s throat. He turns his head slightly towards her and smirks - typical - but she keeps her gaze fixed on his ear, dark hair curling behind the shell, a spot of blood on the lobe.

“Good to see you too, Sif,” he replies, a devilish glint dancing in his eyes. A glint that has been missing for a very long time. He looks younger somehow, despite weeks in the dungeon, and the smile on his face reminds her of different times, a hot summer’s day when she fell asleep with long, golden hair and woke with a shorn head, Loki standing over her. 

Her hair grew back almost as dark as his. 

There are quite a few things she and Loki share, not just hair color, and if this mission of Thor’s goes wrong, they will never share such things again. It is asinine of course, to think of the man who betrayed the realm - who betrayed her - in this way, and though she’s well aware of this, when Loki walks away Sif feels a very sharp pang in her chest that is stopped only when her sword meets the shield of one of the guards trying to stop Thor.

*  
She waits in the training yard for her punishment, drawing circles in the sand with the tip of her sword. The sun beats down on the back of her neck, comforting since  
she’s certain it might be the last time. She willingly committed treason against the King, and even the God of War can’t be forgiven for that. 

Shuffling feet stir her interest, and she looks up into the face of a scout. Her heart jumps. Perhaps he has news. 

‘Thor?’

‘No traces of him, or the mortal,’ is the low reply. The man’s face is completely impassive; he isn’t familiar to her, which means he’s either new or so poor with weaponry that he has never been allowed on training ground.

Sif stares straight ahead at the alder tree she once slammed the trickster’s back into so she could kiss him. It was one of the times things were so heated between them violence was the only way to cool the heat of their ardor and anger. She bites her lip hard enough to draw blood and looks away. Those days have passed. 

‘What of Loki?’

‘Dead. We found his body, but there was no room on the craft to bring it home.’

Sif turns away, nauseated, and fiddles with her hair. The scout walks away, feet dragging through the sand.

*

Odin looks at her, his fierce gaze boring a hole into her head.

‘You defied a direct command.’

Sif kneels, an arm across her breast.

‘I have no excuse, Allfather.’

‘Why?’ He is sprawled on the throne, staff in hand. 

‘He is my friend, and my prince. I made the choice to aid him on his mission.’

‘In doing so, you also helped a prisoner of the realm escape.’

‘And now he is dead,’ Sif’s nails dig into the skin of her palms. The Allfather does not take kindly to being spoken back to.

‘Loki was a traitor.’

‘He was your son!’ the words tear their way from her throat, tears pricking in her eyes. he is callous, unfeeling, and it angers her mightily. For a moment she wants to scream into his face and bash his thick skull in with her shield.

‘He was no son of mine,’ Odin’s voice is thunderous. ‘You are banished from court, Lady Sif, as punishment for your transgressions.’

She breathes heavily to compose herself. It is better than she was expecting, especially after that outburst. The urge to slap him remains, though.

‘And when may I return?’ Her voice does not betray her fury, and she is glad for that.

‘When Thor does. If he does.’

Sif bows and walks out, relief mingling with the sadness that is settling in her bones. She misses Thor, she misses Volstagg, Hogun and Fandral, and worst of all, she misses Loki. 

*

She sits with Heimdall, looking off into the sea of stars and realms and space. Her grief is an open, festering wound. Silent tears track down her face, and her brother says nothing but folds one of her hands into his own.

*

It turns out Sif doesn’t have to wait long for Thor’s return. The ground shakes beneath her momentarily, a flash of lightening splits the sky, and a smile makes its way across her face. She packs her swords and treks back to the palace, her heart beating frantically in her chest. Thor has survived, at least, and perhaps he has defeated the dark forces plaguing Asgard. If he has not, she will ask to join him on his next journey. If he refuses, she will beg and plead because Loki’s death has jumbled her emotions, turned her into a weak, shaking mess, and Sif needs purpose again.

At night, she dreams of his pale fingertips ghosting across her throat, tracing lazy circles on her skin, his mouth on her neck, warm breath and sinful kisses. Whispered conversations, secret smiles all come flooding back in her sleep, until she wakes with a start, sobs wracking her body. Other times, she sees him falling, falling, falling through hellish portals to unknown worlds or a knife, silver and wickedly sharp, pushing it’s way through his chest until he collapses, face down, blood pooling underneath him.

Bile rises in her throat, but she swallows it back down and continues on.

*

Just outside the door to the throne room, she peeks her head around and watches as Thor turns and leaves. Sif makes to retreat and catch him in the courtyard, when a shimmering light casts itself over the Allfather. Mouth wide open, she charges forward, worried someone has done something, but Sif is stopped in her tracks by the sight that greets her.

Loki.

Smirking, dark haired, pale skinned Loki.

Alive.

And parading around as the Allfather.

He stands and her shield clatters to the floor. She is on him in less than two strides, clutching his wrists tightly, tears running freely down her face.

‘What have you done? What have you done, Loki?’ she screeches, releasing one of his wrists to scratch at him. ‘Where is the Allfather?’

Loki grabs the hand aiming to claw at his face and begins cooing soft words, nonsensical but soothing all the same, and to her shame Sif collapses against his firm chest, shaking silently as he runs his fingers through her hair, his nails scratching soothingly at her scalp.

‘How many times must I mourn your death?’ She whispers into his shoulder, relief at his presence mingling with horror at what he might have done to achieve this new position in her chest.

‘Perhaps never again,’ he responds quietly, his voice rich and dark ‘but I make no promises.’

He never has, and nor has she, but when he tilts her chin up to look in her eyes, she pushes the terrible thoughts running through her head down for another time, and kisses him hard, hard enough to make herself forget everything but the sigh of satisfaction he breathes against her lips and the cool brush of his hands on her arms.


End file.
